by Tracy Weber
The dial tone left no room for doubt. Sarah had hung up. I loathed the thought of calling her back, but I needed one final piece of information: her mother’s phone number. If Sarah wouldn’t help me, perhaps George’s ex-wife would. I redialed, held my breath, and steeled myself for what was sure to be an unpleasant conversation.
An automated message answered my call. “We’re sorry. The number you have dialed does not accept calls from this number. If you believe you have received this message in error, please hang up and dial again.”
nineteen
Wednesday night passed brutally slowly, in an insomnia-laden, tossing and turning nightmare. All of my breath practices, all of my meditations, failed me. I obsessed about George and his alleged crimes, haunted by an odd sense of betrayal. I had believed in George. I knew he wasn’t perfect, but blackmail? If he was capable of blackmail, what else had he done?
I staggered out of the house at seven-fifteen and propped myself up with caffeine. Sleep or no sleep, I had a business to run. I arrived at the studio a full two hours before the first class, locked the door securely behind me, and tackled the monthly bookkeeping. I was drinking my third fully caffeinated triple macchiato when the phone rang.
“I hear you’ve been harassing the victim’s family now.”
Fueled by a mind in caffeine-induced hyperdrive, my words tumbled out at twice their normal speed. “Detective Martinez, I’m so glad you called. Did you know that George was blackmailing someone? That’s probably who killed him. And that daughter of his is hiding something, I know it. But don’t worry, I’ll figure it out. All I need is for you to connect me with George’s ex-wife. I’ll talk to her and—”
“Slow down, Kate,” Martinez interrupted. “Take a breath. You’re not talking to anyone.”
“But something’s obviously going on in that family,” I continued, talking even faster. “And I can get George’s ex-wife to open up, easy. I’m good at getting people to talk.”
Martinez’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You could have fooled me.” So far, all you’ve been good at is pissing people off and dodging harassment charges. It took me thirty minutes to calm that Crawford woman down. She was determined to take out a no-contact order.”
I took another long swig of coffee. “Doesn’t that make you suspicious? There’s no way she’d be that upset if she weren’t trying to hide something. Maybe she killed George!”
I heard a telltale squeak as Martinez sat heavily in her chair. “Kate, I know you mean well, but you’re not helping. You may think Henderson and I are incompetent fools, but we know what we’re doing. And your friend O’Connell has been harassing us on your behalf. Believe me, no one’s skating on this.”
“But George’s daughter—”
Martinez didn’t disguise her impatience. “I checked out the daughter’s alibi days ago. She was at home from nine-fifteen until well after ten last Tuesday night. Her phone records verify it. She’s not the killer.”
“Well then, couldn’t her husband have done it? They weren’t both on the phone.”
“Likely not, but they verify each others’ alibis.”
How could she be so gullible? “Of course they do. But do you really think that’s credible? I’ll bet they’re in on the murder together.”
“Kate, just because someone could have been the killer doesn’t mean he was. Where’s the motive?”
My head throbbed and my shoulders knotted in frustration. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “At least not yet. But Sarah was furious—out of control, even—when George asked her for money. And she flat-out told me that she’d kill George before she let him get near her son.”
“That’s merely an expression, Kate.”
“I know, but it shows how upset she was, even days later. Who knows what she might do in a rage? And Rick obviously loves his family. He might have killed George to protect Sarah and Davie in some twisted way.”
“Seems pretty flimsy to me.”
I picked up my coffee cup—empty. Nine shots was a new record, even for me. I didn’t dare go for ten. Frustrated, I slammed the empty cup down on the desk.
“Fine. What about George’s old business partner, Robert, then? He blamed George for ruining their business. He has motive!”
“We looked into all that, too, Kate. That business dissolved over ten years ago. A decade seemed like an awfully long time to hold a grudge, but we checked him out anyway. He was at Tech Life Expo in New York City the night of the murder.”
“So he says. Anyone can sign up for a conference. It doesn’t mean he actually went.”
Martinez was firm. “In this case, it does. Robert was one of the presenters. Over 300 attendees can verify his alibi. Which puts us right back where we started: a mugging or a garden-variety street crime.” She softened her tone. “I know you don’t want to hear this, Kate, but your friend’s murder may go unsolved.”
“There has to be something else we can do. We can’t let George’s murderer go free!”
Martinez spoke slowly and deliberately. “There is no we in this, Kate. You are not a member of the police force. Henderson and I are already doing everything that can be done. Nobody needs your help.”
Fueled by an overdose of espresso and muddled by lack of sleep, I opened my mouth and inserted my Birkenstock-clad foot. “That’s not true. If George weren’t indigent, you’d be working this case a lot harder and you know it. You two may not think George’s life was worth much, but I do. If you’re too apathetic to do your job, I’ll have to do it for you!”
As soon as the words tumbled out, I wished I could take them back. Martinez was the one ally I had on the case. At least she used to be.
“Pay attention, Kate, and pay attention closely,” she warned. “You are not a part of solving this case. I’ve put my neck on the line telling you this much. The last thing we need is an untrained civilian messing up the investigation. Now back off. You’re doing way more harm than good.”
“But—”
“I mean it! Back the hell off. If you harass even one more person about this case, including me, I’ll arrest you myself!”
For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I heard nothing but dial tone. Martinez had hung up.
Muttering phrases that should never pass the lips of a yoga teacher, I slammed down the phone, picked up my coffee cup, and threw it. It sailed across the room and smashed into the wall, barely missing the forehead of an elderly woman.
Where had she come from?
“Oh, my!” she gasped, bringing her hand to her mouth and dropping the flyer she’d been reading. She turned and scurried out the obviously not securely locked front door. Why, oh why, hadn’t I called a locksmith?
I picked up the flyer dropped by my not-in-this-lifetime student. “Yoga for Inner Peace.” Perfect. Just perfect.
I felt bad about frightening her. I felt worse about insulting Detective Martinez. But I hadn’t gotten much sleep, no one appreciated my efforts, and the person I was trying to help had likely been a thug. I had every right to be a little grouchy.
_____
This had better work, I thought, as Bella and I headed north on I-5 to Snohomish. Less than five hours after what would forever be known as “the coffee cup incident,” I was in no mood for another failure. Traffic slowed to a crawl. Why hadn’t I chosen a dog trainer near Greenwood? Bella settled in for the long drive and fell fast asleep. I settled in and tried to stay awake. Her snoring taunted me.
Forty-five minutes later, we pulled into a long, gravel driveway and stopped at an automatic gate. I opened the car door to complete silence. Not a single bark? In a dog training center? Maybe we had the place to ourselves.
As I neared the building, a single warning bark pierced the air, followed by a strict, staccato “Shush!” Silence again. Impressive.
A tall, well-built man dressed in impeccably tai
lored clothes emerged from the building. He grabbed my hand. “Hi, I’m Jim,” he said, crushing my fingers. “You must be Kate. Come with me.” He turned on his heels and marched back to the building, not showing a single doubt that I would follow.
I followed.
Compared to Betty’s office at the rescue, this place was a castle. Clean, sanitary, large and bright, Jim’s office had a huge desk, state-of-the-art computer system, and ample space for several guest chairs. I glanced around. Trophies lined the shelves, and framed photos of ribbon-bearing dogs adorned the walls.
Jim sat behind the desk and got straight to business. “Now tell me more about this dog of yours.”
“She’s not my dog,” I replied automatically. “She’s just staying with me until I can find her a new home. But she doesn’t like other dogs, and she’s not very fond of some people, either.”
Jim leaned forward. “What makes you think that?”
I laughed. “Well, it’s pretty obvious. When she sees another dog she goes crazy—kind of like the canine version of Jaws. But as soon as they’re out of sight, she calms right back down.”
“She’s a German shepherd, right?”
“Yes.”
He looked at me appraisingly. “What do you weigh? 115, 120?”
“About that.” I wasn’t about to admit those extra ten pounds.
“And you’re a yoga teacher?”
“Right …”
“And I’ll bet you’re one of those vegetarian types too, aren’t you?”
“Uh-huh …” Where was this going?
Jim interlaced his perfectly manicured fingers. “I hate to tell you this, but you’re the problem. You’re too nice to own a German shepherd.”
“Too nice?” He had to be kidding, right?
“German shepherds need a strong hand. If you’re weak, they’ll run all over you. But don’t feel bad. Most of my clients with ‘problem’ dogs have this same issue. Generally speaking, the dog isn’t the problem. The people are. They treat their dogs like human children, and it just doesn’t work.”
“Huh?” Not very eloquent, but I was flabbergasted. I was not the problem, Bella was. As for treating her like a child, I hadn’t exactly dressed her up in a tutu and enrolled her in nursery school.
Jim stared directly into my eyes, without flinching. “Let me make it simple for you. Your dog thinks you’re a wimp. She doesn’t respect you. She’s the alpha, and she wants to keep it that way. So she fights with other dogs to establish her dominance over them. If you want to control her, you’ll have to become the alpha—the human pack leader. But that takes a strong hand and a confident demeanor.” He smiled, displaying teeth too perfectly straight to be real. “Cute little thing like you probably doesn’t have it in her.”
“I may be little, but I’m scrappy,” I replied, a little insulted. “Besides, Bella had this same problem with her previous owner. I’ll admit that she’s worse with men than she used to be, but she’s always hated other dogs.”
“She was probably alpha over her prior owner, too. Your dog obviously needs a very strong hand.” He stood up. “Come with me. I’ll show you what I’m talking about.”
I followed him into a large, cavernous space. A gorgeous red Doberman stood caged in the back. “That’s my dog, Duke,” he said. “He’ll be our bait dog.”
“Bait dog?” That didn’t sound good.
“Some trainers call them neutral dogs,” Jim replied. “But I believe in calling a spade a spade. I work with lots of dominant dogs like yours. Duke here helps me teach them their place.” He opened the cage and snapped a leash on the gorgeous animal. Duke quietly followed him to the back of the room.
“Duke. Down,” Jim commanded. “Stay.”
“What’s that thing around his neck?”
“Oh, that’s a training collar. It’s a very useful tool. It allows me to gently shock Duke if he misbehaves.”
I’d never experienced anything I would describe as a “gentle” shock, but I didn’t volunteer that information. While Jim continued extolling the virtues of “training collars,” I watched Duke.
I had to admit that Duke acted like a paragon of proper doggy behavior. He lay on the floor, stone still. He didn’t so much as twitch while his owner and I chatted. After about ten minutes, Jim left and returned with a timid-looking husky. It wore a choke collar tight and high on its throat.
“This guy’s been with me a little over three weeks,” Jim said. “When he first arrived, he couldn’t be within fifty yards of another dog without going berserk.”
Jim walked the husky progressively closer to Duke. It averted its gaze, panting and trembling. About two feet away, the husky locked eyes with Duke and froze. I steeled myself, mentally preparing for Dog Fight Central.
Jim snapped the collar, and hissed a loud “eh!” The husky turned his head and kept walking. Duke still hadn’t moved an inch. I was impressed.
Jim smiled and looked at me confidently. “Now, as you can see, we’re not quite there yet with this one, but he’ll be perfect by the time his owners come and get him next week.”
“The dogs you train stay here?”
“Ideally, yes. I like to keep my canines-in-training away from their owners’ bad influences. That way I can have complete control over them.”
“Sounds expensive.”
“Not when you consider what you get. It’s only $5,000. And of course, we accept all major credit cards.”
Five thousand dollars? I’d have to rob a bank. “There’s no way I can do that.”
Jim hesitated. “Well, you could work at home with your dog, but I can’t guarantee the results …” He paused, as if thinking.
“Tell you what. Let me show you another dog that recently started my program. Once you see the beginning stages of this work, I’m sure you’ll understand why you should leave it to a professional.”
He left the room, taking the husky with him. He returned with a strong, powerful-looking brown and white dog. “This fellow’s an akita,” he said. “Akitas are one of the most willful breeds. They’ll take any opportunity to become pack leader. He’s only been with me for three days.”
Jim walked the akita back and forth, ever closer to the still motionless Duke. About twenty feet away, the akita bared his teeth and lunged. Jim leapt into action. He jerked on the lead, tightened the choke collar, and lifted the akita off the ground, hanging it by its neck. The dog fiercely struggled, spinning and snapping, until Jim slammed it to the ground and pinned it under his legs. “This is called an alpha roll,” he said, breathlessly.
The akita lay on the ground, motionless, as urine pooled on the floor. I suspected it didn’t come from Jim. “Ah, submission. Exactly what I was looking for. Now he knows who’s boss.”
Jim stood up and recommenced walking the now trembling akita back and forth in front of Duke. The dog held his head down, averted his gaze, and pretended Duke didn’t exist. Jim smiled, obviously pleased at his training accomplishment.
“Well, now you can see for yourself how effective good training can be. But do you really think a cute little thing like you can do it? You’d be much better off investing some money and leaving this work to the pros.”
I stared at Jim, speechless. He smiled, looking positive that he’d convinced me. “Think about it for a minute. I’ll put this guy back in his pen. Then we can talk.” Jim left with the akita. Duke remained lying on the floor, motionless.
I had a long, hard conversation with myself while Jim was gone. The yoga teachings were very clear on the subject of violence. Yogis must live by the principle of ahimsa, or non-harming, in all situations. Still, I lived in the real world. And in the real world, violence was sometimes a necessary evil. In some situations, the results of using force outweighed the costs.
In the end, I decided this wasn’t one of them.
Instead, I a
pplied a different teaching, even though it was significantly more challenging. I chose to be neutral toward evil. I summoned every single ounce of my willpower. I used every element of self-control that my yoga practice had taught me.
To my surprise, it worked. I successfully refrained from punching that sadistic SOB in the nose before I marched out the door.
_____
“Positive his methods work, indeed,” I mumbled.
“Macho jerk. I can think of a place or two I’d like to put that shock collar …”
Bella was quiet on the subject, but I could tell she agreed completely.
As I raced away from Jim’s obviously not positive training center, I couldn’t quite let go of my outrage. I couldn’t shake an image of Bella being hung by her neck or reeling in pain from some medieval torture-like collar.
My emotions surprised me. I was embarrassingly familiar with anger; the morning’s coffee-cup incident demonstrated that perfectly. But this feeling was different. It was an intense, almost uncontrollable energy, vibrating from deep in my core. Protect, protect, protect. I must protect.
I finally understood why Dad acted so overbearing sometimes. Granted, I’d been almost thirty, but when you loved something and thought it was in danger, you—
Oh, no.
Anxiety fluttered underneath my sternum. I pulled to the side of the road and took several deep, gulping breaths. This was bad. I couldn’t kid myself anymore. I wasn’t helping Bella because I owed it to George—I was starting to care about her. If I wasn’t careful, I’d soon fall in love. I needed to find her a new home, before it was too late.
twenty
“Imagine that your body is light—as light as a helium balloon, floating away from the earth.”
My students all lay on the floor, completely still, covered up with warm blankets. I fought the urge to lie down and join them. Several hours after my visit to what I now called Jim’s Den of Dog Abuse, I led—or more accurately, sleep-talked—several students through the practice of Yoga Nidra: an ancient meditation technique designed to relax and refresh.
